Abide With Me (The Barn Church Series Book 3)

by Shellie Arnold

  “I don’t need one. And neither should my husband. He’s innocent.”

  “You know that for a fact? Have you spent every moment with him since his release last Tuesday?”

  “No.”

  The officer looked at her with mildly restrained doubt.

  “So, he can’t use you as an alibi?” Niles asked.

  “He doesn’t need an alibi. I know he’s innocent. I know him.”

  She unlocked the door and opened it wide. “Search away. Anywhere you want. We’ve nothing to hide. If you need to check my art again, you have to do it in my presence. But you better hurry. My paintings and I will be leaving soon.”

  Laurie pulled in and hurried to Angelina. “What in the world?”

  Angie started to shake. She relayed what happened. “I don’t know the details.”

  Laurie took her hand and pulled her aside. “What can I do?”

  “I should care about the art show, but right now all I can think about is Nick. We reconciled. We’ve spent days together, and they were the best ever.”

  Tears shimmered in Laurie’s eyes. “You know me, they’re happy tears.”

  “I’m happy, too. For the first time in a long, long time. I love him. I want this to be over. I want my life with him.”

  “Of course you do.”

  And what if she had to wait? Days or weeks for Nick to be released. Or years, if—heaven forbid—he was convicted of crimes she knew he didn’t commit.

  “If the worst happens, I’ll have you and Pierce, Kay, and Daniel, and my church family for support, won’t I?”

  “Absolutely. We’re here for the long haul.”

  The truck arrived. Angie and Laurie worked together loading the paintings—a tedious task as the officers re-examined each piece. Finally, all was secured, and the truck drove away. After sending Laurie home, Angelina packed her bag. She locked the carriage house and descended the stairs behind Detective Niles.

  “I have to leave,” she said. “Would you mind making sure the house is secure when you’re done there?”

  “Where’s the art show?”

  “Mobile.” She rattled off the address.

  “Not sure how the state prosecutor is going to feel about you being in another county.”

  “I’m not missing my first exhibition. I’ll be back Saturday evening. Probably by way of the prison to see my husband.”

  He looked at her long and hard. “You better give me the name of your hotel.”

  She complied. Placed her suitcase in her car and got in. She wove through cops and law enforcement vehicles, passed her house and the line of pines. Reporters and a television crew all but blocked her driveway.

  She slowed. Please, just let me through, she thought.

  Bulbs flashed bright, the LED glare blinding her. A reporter yelled into his microphone even as he pounded on her window and trotted beside her car.

  “Do you believe your husband is guilty of real estate fraud? Did you know of his schemes? Were you already planning to divorce?”

  The television cameraman was at her front bumper, leaning over the hood yet walking backward. Why wouldn’t they leave her alone?

  Finally, she reached the road. She hit the horn, jerked the wheel around the tip of the news van, and floored it.

  ***

  “What happened, Nick? Did you finally snap? Where’s the body? Will we ever find Gavin Hawk?”

  Once again, Nick found himself in an interview room, wearing prison-orange scrubs and sandals, his hands bound with handcuffs and secured around the metal bar at the end of the table. Facing him sat State Prosecutor Darrin Simon, looking morning fresh with his tailored suit and gleaming white teeth.

  Stay calm, he told himself.

  “My client knows nothing of Gavin Hawk’s current condition or location,” Julius said.

  “When’s the last time you saw Gavin Hawk?” Simon asked.

  Nick waited for Julius’ nod. “I told you before. I met with him in his Mobile office before I left on my last trip to Spain. About four months ago.”

  “What did you two talk about?”

  Again Julius nodded.

  “He showed me concept drawings for suites in the resort. He even had a drawing of the view from above.”

  “Tell me about the drawings.”

  “The building was shaped like a pyramid. That shape, combined with the way the strip of land jutted out, meant rooms on two sides faced the beach. The third side was for offices, maintenance, laundry, and such.”

  “A pyramid,” Simon said. “Like on PGI’s logo?”

  “Yes. What does it matter?”

  “Ever see a pyramid like this?” Simon slid photos to Julius, who handed them to Nick.

  The pyramid of black onyx was stamped with the golden PGI logo.

  “This was supposed to be the hotel trademark,” Nick said. “About eight inches high. One in every room or something. Gavin was psyched about it. He had me hold it to feel how heavy it was. Made of real stone, I think.”

  “So you held one in his office.” Simon took back the photos.

  “My client already disclosed he did indeed hold one, at Gavin Hawk’s request.”

  “Which would explain your fingerprints, of course.”

  Nicholas looked at Julius, who stayed him with a hand.

  “I think you should tell us the significance of this item,” Julius said.

  “Your voice print was not a match with Trina Iles’ voicemail recording. She turned over email correspondence—between her and you, or someone using your name—to us. We traced them back. They didn’t come from your computer.”

  “I told you I never met the woman. Never talked with her. I didn’t do this.”

  “Yes, you did tell me that. And I didn’t exactly listen, did I?” Simon tapped the photos on the table between them. “Did you get impatient? Thinking your name would never be cleared, did you figure if you’re going to jail for the rest of your life, you might as well kill Gavin for doing this to you?”

  Nick jerked back. “No!”

  “I’d believe it, after seeing you during the polygraph last Friday.”

  “I was frustrated. I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”

  “There’s blood on the pyramid from Hawk’s office. His blood and hair. Your fingerprints. Nothing else.”

  “That’s enough,” Julius said. “I’d like to confer with my client.”

  Simon stood. “You’ve got ten minutes.” He left.

  “Julius?”

  “It’s bad, Nick. This is bad. They can hold you for a while. No bail because you would have had to leave the county to go to Gavin’s office. Tell me everything you did since your release.”

  Nick filled him in, then sighed. “So, they finally believed I might not be guilty of fraud, and what? Searched Gavin’s offices and apartment over the weekend?”

  “They’re not sure you’re innocent, but they did searches yesterday. I was told after I arrived here this morning.”

  “That’s what Simon meant about being impatient and losing my temper. He thinks I finally found Gavin and killed him. Gavin could be anywhere. Can they prosecute me for murder without finding a body?”

  “It’s been done before,” Julius said. “We’re going to dig in here. We’ll go over every detail again from the beginning. I had the photo of Gavin enlarged.” He removed it from his briefcase. “Is there anything that jogs your memory? The woman, Gavin’s clothes, the background?”

  Nick concentrated. The hard copy showed a wider view of the scene, but the background was still blurry and dark as if the picture were taken in a small, poorly lit space.

  Like a cell. The kind he might spend the rest of his life in.

  “Angelina and I—we just started over. I can’t lose my life with her. I don’t care about the money or the house. But they can’t take my life with my wife.”

  “When Prosecutor Simon comes back, don’t answer any questions. We need to buy time for me to look at their
evidence, review it with you, and plan a strategy.”

  “I won’t go back home this time, will I?”

  “I’m afraid not. They think you left the county and killed someone.” He paused. “And Nick, I’ve got more bad news from our PI. Cameron discovered Gavin owes tens of millions in gambling debts.”

  “That would explain why he formed the dummy corporation and framed me, wouldn’t it?”

  “It could. But gambling debts of that kind mean he’s into some dangerous stuff. If someone’s trying to collect and Gavin’s lying low, we may never find him. Or worse, if someone’s already gotten to him and couldn’t collect, he could already be dead. We may never be able to prove you’re innocent.”

  Nick looked at his hands, bound and bare. They’d taken his wedding ring when they booked him.

  “Call Angelina for me. Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m so proud of her. Tell her I’ll be thinking of her and only her. But don’t tell her the rest, okay? Let her get through the art show without knowing I might never come home.”

  ***

  On Saturday morning, Angelina looked out the second-story office window at Fairchild’s Gallery, which dominated a prominent corner near Mobile’s Garden District. With fifteen-foot high ceilings and strategically placed lighting, Fairchild’s would give her work the best possible debut.

  Except Nicholas wouldn’t be there. As of last night, there’d been no progress in his case, and Gavin Hawk was still nowhere to be found.

  The morning was clear. The temperature, January crisp.

  The gallery air was scented with spice and pine—a nod to winter. An elegant brunch would be served buffet style throughout the show and auction from ten to two, courtesy of Antoni’s Restaurant across the street. She gazed there now, at the brass-paned windows flanking deep wine double-doors, and the private patio on the side with its mythical Greek statues.

  From the corner of her eye, camera lights flashed. She recoiled from the window. Although the latest charges against Nick had not yet been made public, Thursday night, reporters had ambushed her at the hotel. They’d also followed her on each trip to the gallery.

  Thankfully, this time, the camera wasn’t aimed at her, but rather at a photo shoot taking place outside Antoni’s. A woman draped herself against a stone god and lifted her face to the sun.

  Angelina turned from the window, checked her makeup in the full-length mirror by the door. The cobalt sheath dress seemed to shimmer around her. She should feel confident. Elated.

  Instead, her heart ached. Long hours of preparation for the art show meant she hadn’t seen Nicholas since Thursday morning. She hoped if she left early enough, she’d make it to the prison before visiting hours ended today.

  Angelina texted Julius. Any news?

  He responded. Not yet. You’ll be the first to know.

  She checked her watch. The next four hours would be tricky. But she could do it—maintain her composure, interact with the public. She placed her phone in her purse and stowed it in a cabinet. She squared her shoulders, rode down in the elevator, and pasted on her beauty pageant smile.

  Zane Fairchild, wearing his signature silver-gray tux, met her as the doors opened. He took her hand and guided her through a series of doors to the reception area in the building’s center.

  “My dear, you look lovely.” His bald head shone under the high lights. “Not to sound insensitive, but the publicity surrounding your husband’s situation has afforded us a sold-out event. It’s standing-room only in the gallery. Antoni’s is scrambling to feed all the guests.”

  “So, attendance is high?”

  “Indeed. Angelina, what can I do to help? Nick’s predicament is impossible, I know. The timing, despicable. Can you persevere?”

  She still couldn’t believe Nick had been charged with murder and couldn’t bring herself to discuss that with Mr. Fairchild or anyone else. The world would know soon enough, but hopefully not until after her show.

  “I’ll be fine. I appreciate this opportunity and all you’ve done for me. However, I will leave when the final auction ends.”

  “I understand. I’ll sneak you out the back if I have to.”

  “Thank you.”

  He kissed her cheek. “I’m terribly proud of you, my dear. You’ll do well today. I can feel it.”

  “Thank you, again.”

  Mr. Fairchild assigned an intern, Darla, to escort her throughout the reception area and gallery. She steered Angelina around and through the displays to insure all attendees saw her, greeted her, and had just enough time before the auction to glimpse each piece of her work.

  She led Angelina to a private viewing booth on the right of the auditorium. On screens and through a series of well-placed microphones she could see and hear each bid, be it live or from an online buyer.

  The sale began.

  “That guy in the back is either a jerk, or he has money,” Darla mumbled. “Sorry. I noticed the same bidder bumping up the opening bids of the first two pieces, then bowing out.”

  “Do people do that? Bump up the prices?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s a jerk, sometimes it’s someone who can’t make up his mind. Either way, it’s more money for you and the gallery. I’ll be curious to see if he actually buys anything.”

  Mr. Fairchild sold the waterfall series. The Seychelles Islands set. Other single works, including the monuments of Spain and Portugal. He’d warned her he would hold The Lonely Woman series until the end.

  “The crowd will stay,” he’d assured her. “And we’ll sell it all.”

  Now, Angelina sat forward on the edge of her seat as the first three pieces of The Lonely Woman were placed on easels on the stage.

  And she remembered. Nicholas, viewing them slowly as if using them to see into her soul. Reaching for her with sorrow in his voice. For the first time, holding her while she cried.

  The way they’d loved each other.

  Dear God, please bring my husband back to me.

  Bidding resumed. The prices quickly rose.

  As Mr. Fairchild had predicted, each piece sold. Angelina’s mind spun at the purchase prices. Still, sadness spread at parting with such personal work.

  I’ll paint more, she thought. I’ll paint and sell, paint and sell for as long as it takes to free Nicholas.

  The side door to the viewing room opened.

  Mr. Fairchild approached with open arms. “Angelina. Did I not tell you we would fare well today?” He kissed her cheek. “Already I am being asked if you will take commissions. Don’t worry. I’ll hold them off until your legal troubles are resolved.”

  “Thank you. I really must go.”

  She hurried upstairs to his office, retrieved her purse. Her phone buzzed. Julius.

  “Hello?”

  “Angelina. Are you on your way?”

  “No. I’m about to leave.”

  “Glad I caught you. Don’t come tonight. You won’t be able to see him.”

  “But I can be there in time.”

  “They’re about to do the polygraph they didn’t do on Thursday. Stay by your phone.”

  “I’m going straight home. Call me with updates, no matter the time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  In the same small room as before, Nicholas sat in the designated chair. Julius leaned over his shoulder. “No matter what they throw at you, stay in control, or they will bury you.”

  His attorney left, the technician entered. A different man than had performed the first polygraph. Nick tried to steady his breathing. He knew how intense and precarious the process would be.

  The technician wired him up. “I was told you’ve been through this type of test before. Would you like me to explain the procedure?”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Then let’s begin. What is your name?”

  Same first question as last time. “Nicholas Rousseau.”

  “What is your full name?”

  “Sorry.” He should have remembered.

/>   “What is your full name?”

  “Nicholas Francois Rousseau.”

  “What day is today?”

  “Saturday.”

  He stared ahead, blocking out the bleak surroundings. Focusing on the routine, the technician’s tone. Last time, they’d continued this type of mundane questions for many minutes.

  “Did you kill Gavin Hawk?”

  Nick jolted. “No.”

  “Have you ever done bodily harm to anyone?”

  Sure. He’d gotten into fights like any other boy in elementary school. “Yes.”

  “Have you ever done bodily harm to Gavin Hawk?”

  “No.”

  Sweat soaked his armpits and ran down his spine.

  “Did the gold box from your safe deposit box contain a necklace for your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know the necklace was stolen?”

  Stolen? “No.”

  His heart raced. Stay calm. Breathe.

  “Did you steal the necklace kept in the gold box in your safe deposit box?”

  “No.”

  “Are the investment documents in your safe deposit box real?”

  “Yes.”

  The seconds became minutes. The minutes, surely an hour.

  “Since your arrest, have you spoken with Gavin Hawk?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where Gavin Hawk is?”

  “No.”

  The questions struck like punches. Stealing his breath, threatening to double him over.

  Dear God, help me. Julius was right. They’re going to lock me away.

  Abide with Me. Wherever you are, abide with Me.

  “Did you kill Gavin Hawk?”

  Despair crept over him and worked its way inside.

  All his efforts to provide for Angie had been in vain. Without knowing, he’d sabotaged them.

  Never again would he get the opportunity to take care of her. He’d be here, or in some other prison. And she’d be out there, alone.

  “Repeating the question. Did you kill Gavin Hawk?”

  “No.”

  Dear God, only a miracle will get me out of here. If that never happens, please take care of my wife. Provide for her and stay with her always.

  ***

  “The State Prosecutor says Nicholas could have forged his documents as easily as we claim Gavin did,” Julius said.